


Sea Grass and Salt

by KittenKin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Selkie Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 11:49:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17827982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittenKin/pseuds/KittenKin





	Sea Grass and Salt

Sherlock shrugs his coat off, throws it over the back of a chair and drops down into his seat hard enough to make the legs screech protestingly against the floor of the cafe. It’s not as satisfying as flinging himself bodily across a couch but needs must when the devil drives, and the devil definitely has both hands on the wheel today.

Sherlock loves London; the endless mazes of streets, the innumerable scents and colors and textures and how they clash and clamor at him. The humans outnumber the other species to an unnatural degree, their homes obliterating nearly all signs of other life, the cacophony drowning out the call of the sea, the smell of their sweat and stress and desire distracting him away from the sweet salt of home.

He hates London, too, when its unnaturalness overwhelms him. Balance is everything. Sherlock knows how much he must eat to maintain his strength, and how long he can go without food to prioritize deducing over digesting. He knows how often he must wrap himself in silky weeds and briny water, and how long he can immerse himself in chemicals and plastic and sick sticky fog while on the hunt for prey he cannot eat but is still driven to capture.

Right now, so close - _so close!_ \- to sinking his metaphorical fangs into a serial killer, his skin itches and thirsts, his tongue is dry and swollen in his mouth, and even his all-important coat - his sole comfort, the only thing to center him no matter how far he gets from the sea - is distracting his mind away from the clues, the puzzle, the chase. He’s overextended himself and his pelt only reminds him of what his body needs rather than what his mind craves. All the more frustrated for knowing there’s no solution, Sherlock jumps up from the chair only to be brought up short as someone chooses that exact moment to try and cross his path.

“Shit! Sorry,” comes a warm burr, and there’s a whiff of wool and cotton and leather as the stranger crouches down by his feet. Sherlock draws in breath to deliver something suitably scathing as the man rises up again, but the air catches in his lungs.

Not a sheep, not from a farm, not of the sunlight; that was just the shirt and jumper and jacket. The blond man smells of hot blood and cold steel and long, lonely nights.

And he’s got Sherlock’s coat in his hands.

_Never let a human hold your pelt; might as well give your blood to a shark to hold in its mouth. They can’t help it, and you won’t be able to help being captured in turn. You can only truly escape if they give it back of their own will and heart, and no human’s ever done it. You’ll be wed, and your bones will wither in dry earth._

He’d always dismissed it as nursery nonsense, only told to keep pups from wandering too far from their kelp beds, but Sherlock can’t help the frisson of ice that shivers up his spine.

“Beautiful coat, this; deserves better than the floor.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock murmurs, catching half-formed insults between his teeth. The seductive sea-song that clings to Sherlock no matter how dry his skin or how bitter the remaining salt in his blood will likely keep the man from being driven off entirely, but raising his hackles won’t do the selkie any favors. He presses his lips closed and takes a second look.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asks after a moment, and they’re off.

Question and answer, hook and bite. _Sorry? Afghanistan, RAMC actually, yeah the left one, hold on, how did you know?_ The man steps closer, cane still forgotten on the floor, but his hands dig deeper into Sherlock’s coat and the selkie starts to fret. He can’t antagonize the man - John, John Watson, MD - but intruiging-charming-luring him in is only strengthening his hold.

He can walk off and gamble that ingrained manners will urge John to stop him and return the garment. But what if they don’t? And even if they do, will that be of John’s “own will and heart”, to be forced by societal convention? Will they be drawn together again and again, Sherlock stripped by unpredictable circumstance, until he’s in proper possession of his pelt?

Or wed?

Could he fall victim to an even more unsavory fate-mate while he dances with John?

Sherlock takes a third look, simply taking in impressions now instead of sniffing out clues upon which to base his deductions. Sharp storm-ocean eyes over an inoffensive smile. A dangerous man wearing a nubby oatmeal jumper. A wolf in wool. Impossible to forget when you find yourself hunted, but easily overlooked…

Overlooked…

“Oh!” Sherlock shouts, grabbing the blond by the shoulders in a fit of joy and realization. “Hiding in plain sight! Brilliant! Come on, John!”

Sherlock tries to herd him toward the door, but the ex-soldier proves unsurprisingly agile and stubborn, screwing his heels against the linoleum and sticking fast.

“Hold on! Where do you think you’re taking me?”

The detective wheels and bares his teeth in a predatory smile. He’s standing in a greasy cafe and breathing in air redolent of chips and old grease but he can almost taste salt blood and feel the crunch of fishbones and scales.

“I’m going to catch a serial killer, and you’re going to help me.”


End file.
